Secret
by Imalkikal
Summary: During WWII, France was given to Prussia by Germany as a thank you for his hard work. Through the beatings, though, could it be possible that Prussia feels something more for his captive? Rated T for Prussia's mouth.


**A/N:** This is a response to Saja Natalia's fic "Just Understand" which can be found here: http:/ www . fanfiction . net/ s/ 6465508/ 1/ Just_Understand

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During the Second World War, my brother gave Francis Bonnefoy, the country of France, to me as a gift; a thank you for all my hard work in the war. He used to be a friend of mine. Once. But times were different now. I was on the Axis, he was on the Allies. We were enemies. And I was the great military nation: Kӧnigreich Preuβen. And I was mentally unstable.

When he was first given to me, I went all out. I showed him my strength. I brutalized the poor son of a bitch. And I felt no remorse. Until the next week. Every day I went in and beat him, cut him, shot him, left him within an inch of his life. And I had fun. It made me forget. I forgot about the outside world, about the war, about West, about my dissolution, about that crazy fucker of a leader, Hitler. I even forgot who my victim was. Sometimes.

I remembered at night. When I looked back on my day and told myself all the awesome things I did I would remember that the man I almost killed that day, every day, was France. Francis. The man I was in love with. And I felt horrible. And sick. But I couldn't find it in myself to be sorry, either. Maybe he deserved it. He'd done nothing to help me after all, right? But that didn't help me feel any better. I knew the reason he fell victim to my attacks. He was the closest punching bag. This war, my treatment, that fucking dissolution…it got to me. It drove me insane, it made me angry, and I had to take it out on something. Francis was that something.

But sometimes I couldn't find it in me to hurt him. Sometimes I just needed to find a place to get away. I knew there was one place I could go to be alone, one place where no one would bother me. I went to Francis. I would just walk into the room we kept him in, close the door, and sit. I would never speak. I couldn't. But he did. He would talk in French or English, never my own language. If French didn't work the one day I came, he would try English the next time. It was a cycle. I liked it.

I never responded to him. If I did it would be in the form of beatings. There were some days I just wanted silence, and his noise aggravated me. I couldn't help it. There was one time, though, I did speak to him.

My visits to France's room had begun to increase. The war was wearing on and I was getting sick of it. The pressure was starting to get to West and he and his fucked up leader would take it out on me. Jackasses. So I would get away from it. I would go to my best friend, the one I loved, to escape. His presence comforted me even though we could be nothing more than enemies at that time.

He spoke to me again. Today it was in English. He started out with a pleasant greeting. I didn't respond. How could I? My life was less than pleasant. He assured me that I could talk to him. I almost laughed. No. We were enemies. We couldn't behave as friends. He mentioned something about noticing that I was coming more often, wondering if something was wrong. Again, I couldn't respond. He didn't know the half of it. A lot of shit was fucking wrong…and I was gonna do something about it. But then he said, "You can tell me. I'm France. I'm your…we've known each other for quite a while." Silence. He really thought I didn't know it was him? After all this time? Of course I knew Francis Bonnefoy. That dumbass.

"I know who you are," I muttered. To be honest, my voice surprised me. I didn't realize I spoke until after I did and…in the common tongue no less. I could tell he was taken aback. It took him a few moments to respond, and even then, he couldn't say anything intelligible.

"I…" was all he could get out. And I was relieved. I couldn't talk about it. I couldn't say anything. I was in the process of planning something, a secret. I could tell no one. But I knew, if he managed to get me talking, I would tell him anything, _everything_. He had this power over me.

"I just don't want to talk about it, okay?" I paused for a second, choosing my words carefully. "You're a…you're a friend. Just understand." And that was all I ever said to him.

But there were other times I visited him that he didn't know about, when I knew he wouldn't try to speak to me and when I _could_ speak to him. I would come at night. I would come quietly, peeking my head into the room, checking to make sure he was asleep. Once I knew he was, I would come in and lay next to him. Sometimes I would even take him in my arms, carefully of course.

You probably think that's strange, huh? I beat the shit outta this guy and don't say a fucking word to him, but then I come to him at night like this? Remember, I was in love with him, even back then. And it was at night, when the pressures of the day had been removed, that I remembered this. Some nights I felt compelled to see him, to stay with him. So I did.

On these nights, I would speak to him. I would just tell him about my day, about stressors, about the Allies, about West, and about that crazy fucker he called a leader. I only spoke in German, but it was still more than I did in the day. Sometimes I would fall asleep with him. But I made sure that I escaped at first light. Francis could never know about this nightly habit of mine.

It was my secret.


End file.
